In Brooklyn
by B. Murakawa
Summary: In which Spot is strong.


author's notes: this baby's been rotting in my hard drive for months now, and finally i've got it as close to finished as it's gonna be. takes place (1) before spot is leader of the brooklyn newsies, (2) soon after he becomes leader and (3) after jack goes to manhatten.  
  
warnings: pretty slashy  
  
disclaimer: i don't own all the cute newsboys, disney does; if i owned them, they'd be naked for a huge portion of the movie. i do, however, own jaybee, the little ho.  
  
[In Brooklyn]  
  
I  
  
Life with Frank is simple. Wake up in the morning, stretch and wallow in blankets made warm by our body heat. Frank's been my bedmate for two years now, and I've gotten used to having his legs all on my side of the bed and to his breath hot and rancid in my face. Better to be sleeping next to him than on the floor--he was here before me, the only boy other than Jaybee without a selling partner or a bedmate. There ain't so many beds here, or a great deal of space. I hear there's a lodging house in Manhattan, a real nice place with no broken windows or nothing and lockers and...no use thinking about it, really, since most of us boys'd rather die than take any charity from Manhattan.  
  
Frank doesn't rouse himself all at once. The first step is when he flips onto his belly. He can't stand to actually sleep like that (says it crushes his guts) but it's easier to hide his face from the sun in whatever is handy--his pillow (if it's managed to last the night without being tossed onto the rough slats of the floor), the sheets, or the heated flesh of my elbow--if he's in that position. And no matter how often I shake him, or one of the other boys shouts into his ear for him to get his lazy ass up, he'll stay there for about five minutes before groaning and pulling himself to his hands and knees, like a wounded animal. From there he slithers onto the floor, head resting upon the wall, legs spread carelessly wide. Sometimes this gives me Thoughts, and I make a hasty exit, but other times I'm just too drowsy to be bothered, and I watch him stumble to his feet, rubbing his eyes and muttering "good mornin's" to whoever happens to be in his line of vision.  
  
In Brooklyn, it's all about safety in numbers. It's good to have someone watching your back, and so every boy except Jaybee has a selling partner; this way most of us don't get knocked around so much. The flipside of that is the trust that grows like some dark weed between long-time partners. That ain't good. 'Cause you never know when your partner's gonna go and get himself killed, and you forget to temper the relationship with a healthy amount of suspicion. Least, that's been my experience. More reason to kick myself, because I'd trust Frank with my life, experience be damned.  
  
I tell Frank things that I don't tell anyone else. But not everything there is to tell, not by a long shot. He knows about my mother, who was palling around with a showgirl for a long time after I was born, and who aborted my baby sister. Most of what I remember of that is a lot of blood and my mother sitting in the large wooden tub my family bathed in, laughing though a veil of tears. Da wasn't too happy about it, and he came close to killing her that night. Once Gram talked some sense into him, he wiped up the blood with an air of deadly calm, and the next day he was gone, as if he'd never been there. I think I may've cried. Frank looked sick when I whispered that particular story in his ear, we two snuggled comfortably in our bed.  
  
He likes folk stories much better, the sorta stuff my Gram told me in the evenings when we didn't have enough fuel to keep the fire burning in the dirty hearth, Ma snoring in her rocking chair and someone in the room next to ours shouting at his wife. Legends of Danu, Mother of the Gods, and Her lover, Bile, and the children that They bore who are in turn our Ancestors. I know I get some things wrong--I have a rusty memory--but I can usually manage to fill in the gaps.  
  
Frank's got a way with the ladies, even though he's only fifteen. Girls adore him, and he heartily returns the feeling. If ever the conversation becomes dry, he'll bring up some cherry he's recently met, rosy of cheek, supple and shy, everything Frank isn't. He doesn't understand why I become so short-tempered with him when he asks me if I've got a girl of my own yet. Jaybee thinks I'm different from the other fellas, and I am. Not just because I'm shorter and get angry quicker. "You stare too long, is what," Jaybee has said to me more than once, all attitude and no real emotion whatsoever. That's a born and bred Brooklynite for you. "It's a goddamned miracle Sullivan hasn't caught you at it by now." That's because Frank is too naive to even consider that I might have Thoughts about him. He trusts me.  
  
Jaybee is like me in more ways than one. He's a genius with a slingshot, and I've been getting lessons from him. Most of the boys have. But none of them knows the sensation of his lips upon their collarbone, or his hands tugging at the buttons of their vests. My imagination takes over, turning his pale eyes dark and his too short red hair a familiar dusty brown. A phantom Frank, fading away along with my innocence, a creature confined to filthy alleys and lonely nights under a black sky.  
  
Control. Frank never bothers with it, keeps his heart on his sleeve and that's one of the things I can really appreciate about him--I always know where I stand. But I've been learning a lot about control these past few years, all the uses it holds and how far it can get me. Some emotions are safe--anger, for instance, and hate. Some ain't, like fear, sadness, love. I have the hardest time with that last, because I ain't really sure what it is, exactly.  
  
More and more these days, Jaybee turns to me. Guilt, another dangerous emotion, nips at me for leaving Frank out in the cold while I bask in Jaybee's favor, rising up in the ranks and not thinking about what'll happen to me if any of the boys figure out just how well I know our leader-- in the biblical sense. Shrug off the chills and go with it.  
  
"It shouldn't be like this, Spotter," a heated whisper, barely audible over the buzz of the city and my labored breathing. My back arches at an impossible angle--stupid verses going through my head, knives of the past and I wonder where my Da is now. Jaybee looking at me but not seeing me, sweat rolling in clear beads down his smooth forehead. Imagine it's Frank thrusting into me and burying his guilty eyes in my neck and time stops for. Just. One. Moment. "Shouldn't...be here," an' Jaybee-who-will- never-be-Frank shudders before collapsing on me, heavy and boneless.  
  
The first to call me Spotter was Jaybee, because I can "hit a target half 'a mile away without breakin' a sweat", and the other boys've picked it up, shortening it to Spot. "It's safer, anyway," Frank points out. "Not usin' your real name."  
  
"What about you, Frankie? Why ain't you got a nick?"  
  
He gets quiet, which ain't normal where Frank's concerned, so I drop the subject 'til the next time it comes up.  
  
An autumn night, curled in Jaybee's arms and shivering from the cold, slimy cobblestones pressing into my bare skin. I feel sorta like a snake, and it ain't a very pleasant feeling. "Spotter," Jaybee mutters, fingers tracing patterns down my spine which makes me shiver even more. Staring at me like I'm the goddamned Holy Ghost. "You about the prettiest kid I ever..." Leaves that sentence unfinished, breaths in hard. "I wanna tell you somethin'."  
  
Hoping he ain't gonna break into song and dance, proclaiming his undying love for me. That'd put me in an awkward position, since I care about as much for him as I care for pickled olives. He doesn't do anything so extreme, just sits up and lights a cigarette, the tip glowing in the dark. "Wish I had some inspirational words right about now," he laughs shortly.  
  
"What the hell would I do with inspiration, anyway?" I ask retorically, humoring him. He can get pretty fucked up. "Paint? Fool around with a piano?"  
  
He shrugs, grunts vaguely. Offers me the cig, and I puff on it a coupla times before handing it back and reaching for my trousers. "Wait. Wait a second. Look, I really got somethin' to get off me chest."  
  
"So get it off. I wanna get back before Frank--"  
  
"Forget about Sullivan, this is important."  
  
"I'm listenin'," I say irritably, fumbling with the buttons of my shirt and wondering where the hell my suspenders have disappeared to. Fight the urge to pound him into the pavement when he grabs me, hands squeezing down on my upper arms until I can feel myself bruising. I meet his gaze unflinching, playing it tough.  
  
"You ain't listenin' good enough, Conlon." Presses his lips hard against mine, like he wants to rape my mouth. I bite his tongue, and he pulls away with a Cheshire grin. "Such a poisonous little thing for a kid your age. You'll be fourteen soon, won't you? Good, good. I'm goin' West tomorrow."  
  
My eyebrows climb into my hair, and I want to punch him for dropping that on me so sudden. "You're jokin'."  
  
"No joke. I'm done with sellin' papes an' scroungin' for pennies. A man can make his fortune out there, an' that's precisely what I plan to do."  
  
"End up slavin' in the mines, more'n likely," I snap angrily. "What're we s'posed to do here without you? Who's gonna look after the boys an' make sure the rent gets paid an'--"  
  
"You," interrupts Jaybee, like it shoulda been obvious to me from the start.  
  
"You're mad," I state numbly, rising quickly, swallowing over and over again, reflexively. The mouth of the alley sneers at me, but I don't falter as I stalk toward it.  
  
Frank is wet from a recent bath but puppy-dog warm, mouth wide open and dripping saliva on the arm upon which his head rests. Flop down next to him, fully clothed and crawling with something I can't name--lie wide awake for an eternity and a hour, until I can't stand it no more and I just close my eyes and pretend I'm sleeping.  
  
II  
  
"Battle wounds," Frank laughs, poking at the multitude of dirty bandages that hide from view the numerous cuts and bruises I've attained over the past few days. I can be compared to a patchwork quilt, my skin is so many different colors. Not sure what Frank seems to find so funny. He's always had a skewed sense of humor. "You look better'n your opponents, if it's any consolation," and that's true enough. I try not to look too smug.  
  
"Yeah, well."  
  
"Well, what?"  
  
"Well, that's all," I grumble, swearing that I'll kill myself if he ever figures out what I'm thinking now--wishing he meant that the way I want him to. I wanna look good for him, I wanna be goddamned beautiful so he'll look at me and only me. I want him to drown in me.  
  
He's standing, now, towering over me. Fucking giant. "I'm goin' out for a bit. Don't go anywhere." Tugs on his cap and then he's gone. I pretend I don't know that he's stealing our dinner 'cause I didn't make enough money today to help cover the cost.  
  
III  
  
Life without Frank is complicated. It's complicated and it's wrong and it ain't really life at all. One moment he's bright and shining and near and the next, he's gone. It isn't fair, but I'm used to things not being fair where I'm concerned. So I never got my big chance, and he'll never know, and no one really cares.  
  
Except sometimes a moment will come upon me unguarded, and I'll remember him, and feel lost. Then I'll shake myself out of it. I'm Brooklyn now. I'm stronger than that.  
  
I tell my boys he's found something better to do--like Jaybee--and that we'll probably never see him again. 


End file.
